Page:Punch (Volume 147).pdf/282

262

Old Lady.



to thee are marching legions,
 * Cannon smoke and sabre thrust,

Goddess of the cloud-rimmed regions
 * In whose might the Germans trust?

Though, however high and regal,
 * Kingly pomp may break and bend

Soiled with murder (labelled legal), Thou, more active than the eagle,
 * Thou endurest to the end.

Thou wast not behind their banners
 * When they scoured the Belgian plain,

When they taught their Teuton manners
 * By the wreck of farm and fane;

Clear of battle's mire and fury
 * On those sightless feet and hid,

Thou wast wafted with the story Saying this was German glory
 * To Chicago and Madrid.

Long e'er Paris heard the thunder,
 * Herald of the Uhlan's lance,

Thou wast making Stockholm wonder
 * At the dying flame of France:

Not on wires, with no word written,
 * Thou hadst trod thine airy track,

Faster than the mailéd mitten, And behold our fleet was smitten
 * Somewhere near the Skager Rack.

So. And when their lines are broken,
 * When their shrapnel falls less fast,

Shalt thou fail to send a token
 * Undefeated to the last?

Surely not. Red devastation
 * Still shall urge by land and sea

Every proud advancing nation While Marconi's installation
 * Rules the skies of Germany.

Still when pagan peoples sever
 * Railway line and telegraph

Thou shalt keep thy staunch endeavour,
 * Thou shalt scatter us like chaff.

Still, O goddess of the Prussians,
 * Thou shalt sound thy trump of tin

Undeterred by rude concussions While the Frenchmen hail the Russians
 * On the flagstones of Berlin.

 A German Motto:—"Gott mit Huns."